


Leg it!

by Kuro_Guardian



Category: Seihou Bukyou Outlaw Star | Outlaw Star
Genre: Also periods and occasionally dashes, Criminal Underusage of Punctuation, Earlier Work, Experimental Style, Gen, Seriously commas are wonderful
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-12
Updated: 2015-12-12
Packaged: 2018-05-06 08:01:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,218
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5409143
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kuro_Guardian/pseuds/Kuro_Guardian
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Every scar on him had a story to tell. Here's one. [Experimental Fic]</p>
            </blockquote>





	Leg it!

There's a gun in his hands and he's clutching it like the lifeline it is. Can't get a clear shot, hand twitching like  
something alive, something crawling under his skin gnawing at his nerves. Heart jack hammering the pulse  
where his stomach should be while his scrotum is trying it's damnest to hide. Stomach in his chest and bile  
thickening bitterness, salty and overpowering against his chattering teeth. The only thing coming through is the  
need to blast them, blow them away like leaves before the wind. He can see the blood on the walls through the  
sweat in his eyes and nobody's even pulled a damn trigger yet. Drowning in himself now - sweat trailing his  
temple, tracing his spine, fingering his thighs. Clenching his teeth he struggles not to close his eyes.

Trigger slippery fever-formed and sweat cool almost quivering like something alive. Wish it'd jump for him,  
hop for him - somehow think for him and become his own personal savior - halle- fucking -lujah. He's dead,  
mind empty - blank as the fucking sky at noon, but he keeps trying to think 'cause it's happening too fast to just  
act. Too bad thinking's not his strong point, never was - no wonder this is so stupid. A stupid reflexive fuckup.  
All he can count on now is a bunch of quick reflexes and a hell of a lot of good luck. And hope for salvation  
when all that runs out 'cause time's racing on by and a lot of fingers are itching to squeeze.

Like an Old West Saloon at Dead Noon. Gin bottle hit's the counter, tonic bottle hit's the floor - at least  
twelve guns roar. Slow motion senses on overdrive can almost see the bullets watch every trickle of alcohol  
and glass trace it's way to earth. Across the room and under a table before he knows it. Some lady, some  
whore makeup strong, chest heaving hands barely covering the nipple much less the breast. Scrotum tightens  
just enough to raise his head. Blood in his eyes, but it's her's. Trigger slick, and anger leads to hatred leads to  
violence which sometimes soothes. Jumps up draws several beads - zero grav acrobatics save the day and  
land the shot. Guy's head vaporizes.

Runs weaving through the blood red vision - only sixteen and a man killer who might be dead in another  
minute. Ears roaring, doesn't hear, can't see it, but the blood knows and the soul cleaves to the warm breast;  
he hit's the deck. Can't breathe, tries again smells of old vomit, sawdust, and spilt liquor. Everything taking  
care of it's self his gun is sounding as the fellow goes down a gaping hole in between his eyes. Like a pop it all  
comes back and the noise is deafening. Souls and bullets flying - the wooden floor next to him explodes as a  
shot just misses him.

He's up on gangly legs - the bottles behind the bar shattering in one long string as the lights dim and visibility  
suffers. The stench of alcohol's overwhelming making his eyes water, his nose burn. His stomach is making a  
definite break for his throat. Pain like a stop motion flower blooming from his shoulder, arm refuses to work  
right doesn't matter luck and time's running out along with bullets. The door's still too far away unless the  
blood in his eyes is making him see things. Still he's alive and the reflexes still there. Ducking and dodging like a  
shopaholic at rent time after Christmas.

Hop the table, swing a steel-toe boot into some upstart jerk's ugly mug. Busted lips, broken chipped teeth,  
broken jaw got to be an improvement from his point of view. But then again survival puts a whole new spin on  
things. Too bad the stupid son-of-a-bitch doesn't stay down. He's up with a rusty little blade. "Ahh!"  
Motherfucker shoved a knife in his fucking chest. Hopefully nothing to vital, unlike say breaking this thug's  
wrist and then using his own knife on his stupid throat. Hands sweat streaming nervous sweat and coated with  
red stuff thick as syrup.

Reflexes ain't so quick now, aren't so sure now, but the doors right there if he doesn't bleed to death  
first. How much blood can a guy lose before he's gasping on the floor? Too bad hospitals outta the question  
and he'll be damned if he goes back on state's dole. Nosy bitch always looking around, needing to know  
every little detail. Hell might as well be back at Aunt Lucy's - bitter old hag. Night's been cradling him against  
her cool, sweet breast the last five minutes and he's just noticed. Leaning against the dirty cold brick wall  
letting the breeze stroke his forehead and sting his wounds. As the sweat on his palms and between his fingers  
cools fear stabs at his back teasing his nape making him feel vulnerable - a child all alone in the darkness, but  
he's not that little boy anymore not as long as there is earth beneath his feet.

Heartbeat quiets, stops just long enough for him to realize the fight's still on and heading his way. So tired he  
just wants to sink to the ground, but if he does he'll end up under it. Tuck and roll he's out of direct range as  
he unfolds and darts to the left. Asphalt grounding beneath his boots, his fingertips being scraped of skin. Every  
shot sounds like it's right behind, but they're further away - running away. He's running away? Nah, it's a  
whattamacallit? A strategic retreat, right? So why the hell is he running back toward the bar and his pursuers?

Duck, spin, round -house kick. Clatter - like manna from heaven - opportunity knocks, a nice gun, but too  
much for just this. Knifes are easier - duck and swing don't think. Sticky, warm but thankfully it's not his. Try  
to think pass the pulse behind his eyes - five guys; two knives, three guns - useless this close with this many  
bodies in motion. Last one has chains - he's your last dance partner. Which makes now the exact wrong time  
to forget all the fucking moves. Thank goodness they're playing his song - siren's wailing like the fists still going at  
it inside.

Time to cut and run. An almost nod means they're pick this up again next time. Barely in the back alleys  
when the lights hit the scene - not making it too hard to follow him, but then again they've got their hands full  
already. Anyway it's the low-city maze of ill-lit side streets, alleys, and cuts. Still bleeding not so bad now -  
probably won't kill, but will definitely add to his ever-increasing scar collection. Home turf now - broken street  
lights and rusty congregated steel. Still jogging, trip almost face-plant. Chest hurts more now.

Finally Jacob's fence. Too damn tall, why the hell does he need a fence this damn tall? Careful of the  
barbed wire, watch the face - flip over. Damn, at least he landed on his hands and knees, but his chest is on  
fire and he's bleeding there badly now. Bile almost pass the lips shadow at the edge of vision. Smile, cross  
another bar off the list and watch the ground rush to greet him. Too bad though, he never did get that blonde's  
number - hmmmm legs for days.


End file.
